


With Broken Fingers

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Sexual Content, Torture, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rebels close in on the Monoroe Republic and one ill timed explosion could mean the end of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Broken Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> General warnings: This story is pretty messed up and contains violence, sex things, and mentions of rape. I used the general Miloe tag, but there are other "relationships" that occur in here that are not tagged due to my desire to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Thanks to [3988akasha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha) for beta and being a bad influence ;)

“Sir, you have to evacuate now. Our line won’t hold long.”

Bass appreciated Jeremy calling him “Sir,” especially in front of the other grunts. He appreciated a lot about Jeremy: his stubborn insistence on loyalty, for one thing, it was the only thing left that he could rely upon. His compass. He needed a new compass, since his last one has been smashed to pieces by Miles Matheson the day he left. And then again, the day he came back. Quite frankly, Bass was constantly picking up pieces of his compass with broken fingers.

And the rebels were about to blow up their compound: that much he could feel. One didn’t have to be a military genius to know that the charges had probably been long set, even if one did not know the way Miles Matheson thought. Which, of course, Bass did. Use to know. Fuck it.

He turned back to reenter the building, Jeremy’s hand grasping him by the shoulder, a heated whisper against his ear, “Bass, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’ll be right back. Get them out of here. Meet me in the back of the compound with transport.”

“Whatever you’re going back for,” Jeremy held Bass by both shoulders now, eyes burrowing into his own. “It’s not fucking worth it. Let it burn, Bass.”

Something projectile exploded about ten feet away from them, taking out two of the grunts.

“Mind your own shit, Baker,” Bass snapped and ran back into the building.

He regretted saying it, as he went straight for the space under his mattress, if for no other reason than because he didn’t want those to be the last words he’d ever say to Jeremy. What was it they said about the bomb that killed you? You never hear it coming? Bass could feel something tingle, as if his hair stood on the back of his neck, as he clenched the photo in his hand, giving it one last hard look. 

“Fucking Miles,” he whispered. “My mama always said you’d be the death of me.”

That was when he knew that someone had triggered the charges. He would have liked to imagine it was General Matheson himself, with his thumb on the trigger, but no, it was probably that Nora bitch. Blown up by that treacherous dog: how annoying.

The explosion had thrown him straight across the room, or what little was left of the room, as splintered wood and stone crumbled around him like some kind of vomit of Hades. The photo had been speedily tucked into his front pocket, and Bass could feel the hard edges of it, as if that little piece of paper could block out the rest of the pain. Except that he felt no pain. Which was bad. By all accounts, this could not be good. He was in shock then, and he supposed he’d be dead soon enough, certainly there was enough weight pressing down on his chest as he lay there, physical weight, not the metaphorical weight of his baggage as represented by the photo of him and Miles their first day at bootcamp. _Did he love me then the way I loved him already_ , Bass thought, and then his vision began to blur. 

“Bass,” he heard the voice coming from somewhere above him and he wanted to open his eyes, except his eyes hurt, and besides, he was probably dead already so what was the point. “Bass, hang on.” Something was moving above him. Anvil weights being lifted and thrown to the side. He could barely breathe, but it was getting easier. “Bass, you stupid asshole, look at me. Look at me!” He was being shaken, and in a rather ungingerly fashion at that.

“It’s okay, Miles,” he smiled upwards, towards the light and dust halo around the other man’s head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Come on, dammit. Don’t do this. Don’t die like this. Not like this.”

He was being pulled somewhere, he wasn’t sure where. But there was a lap, and he was apparently in it. Or his head was. And Miles was holding him, so this had to be Heaven, or at least Not Hell.

“I don’t mind. I could do a lot worse than to die in your arms.” He thought he said it outloud, but he couldn’t be quite sure because his lips felt like the Sahara Desert had descended over his face.

“No, I’m not letting you die.” His dark haired angel was rather insistent and Bass gave him his most cooperative smile because he didn’t want to make him angry and leave again.

“Whatever you say, Miles.”

“You listen to me, Sebastian Monroe.” But instead of saying whatever Bass figured he would say next, his dark haired angel leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, followed by another kiss, like the breath of life, washing over his parched lips. He could have sworn that he saw the glint of a tear roll down Miles’ face and then he shut his eyes and drank in the kiss like the ambrosia that it was.

He felt no pain. It seemed like the perfect time to just... let go.

***

When Rachel had first come to the compound, Bass was happy. Well, not in a happy, “Oh, I feel so great,” way, more in the “It’ll be nice to have another hot piece of Matheson ass around.” Even if Rachel was a Matheson by marriage only. He and Miles used to joke that the Matheson men had a type: blond, blue-eyed bombshells. It used to make him blush when Miles referred to him that way, and feel fabulously dirty at the same time, to be thought of a some part of the coterie of hotties that made up the Matheson harem. At least Rachel was respectable: Ben had “put a ring on it,” or however that Oldie went. Bass was... Well.

“Are you still Miles’ dirty little secret?” she snapped as soon as the two of them were alone.

“Nice to see you too, Rachel.”

“Yeah. I guess you are. Wonder what the rest of your militia would think if they knew their precious leaders were busy shining each _other’s_ gunbarrels every night.”

“I was _going_ to be nice and let you have the room next to ours so that you could listen to the ecstatic chorus of blasphemies that I fuck out of your brother-in-law every night, but since you insist on being such a bitch about it...”

“Didn’t think you’d be the one doing all the fucking,” she interrupted.

He didn’t expect her to play nice. He hadn’t actually expected her to come at all. But Miles had assured him she would. So here she was. Bass pursed his lips.

“Don’t question my virility, Rachel, unless you want to be on the receiving end of it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You don’t know _me._ ”

He had made many mistakes in his life, and underestimating Rachel Matheson had been one of them. Just like sending Neville for Ben had been a mistake. At what point did he make more mistakes than Miles could forgive him for? Where did he cross the line? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps it started the night he had sex with Rachel. But what was he to do: she had actually been the one to throw herself at _him_. In retrospect, he should have known she wasn’t doing it just because she was choking for his cock. Not her. She played a fine game of chess, and he had been a pawn who thought he could be King.

***

The Sahara was back, and with it the stabbing pain his lungs. Bass moaned and tried to move his hand towards his face, except it wasn’t working. His eyes flew open, only to be blinded by something offensive streaming into the room. Sunlight. He groaned again and tried to move his legs, only to be met with further failure.

“The fuck...” he muttered and turned his head to the side, towards the sound of uncertain shuffling.

“Welcome back, you fucking prick.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Bass blinked at the young woman standing next to him, her hand resting on a plastic bag that was suspended in the air. He let his eyes focus: it looked like an IV bag. Although the woman didn’t exactly look like a nurse.

“Linda.”

“Linda who?”

“You’re not really in a position to ask any questions,” the obstinate creature responded, checking the IV again and walking over to the other side of the bed, shuffling again around his feet. He tried to move his legs again: failure. “Are you in pain?” the girl asked.

He gave her a hard look, craning his neck to better assess his situation. Restraints. Ah, of course. This explained a lot. He flexed his arm muscles and pulled.

“They’re secure, Superman, I wouldn’t overexert myself if I were in your current state,” said the smirking harpy.

“Where am I?”

“I said: Are you in pain?”

“What the fuck do _you_ think?” he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“Good. I’ll go let them know you’re awake.”

“Let who know?”

She had walked away, leaving him strapped to that bed, trying to collect his senses. He had to take stock of his predicament. He was obviously a prisoner: check. Also, he was apparently not dead: double check. Upsetting. He was quite ready to die, as he recalled. The peace he had felt descend over him in those moments before he blacked out was nothing short of the most sublime feeling he had felt in years. He was safe, and home, and Miles was there, holding him, kissing him. He must have hallucinated it. It was the only possible explanation. The last kiss Miles had tried to give him was the kiss of death with his sabre, after all, and _that_ little moment of tenderness was not something he would be likely to mistake for a figment of his imagination. His imagination was not so cruel, contrary to popular opinion.

He was suddenly very aware of exactly how thirsty and hungry he was. Other than whatever was in the IV, he would bet he hadn’t had anything that passed for nourishment in days. Who knows, maybe even weeks. He tried to inhale again, only to be thwarted by the stabbing in his lungs. God fucking dammit. His ribs must have been broken. How many, he wondered, idly, as his eyes tried to vainly scan the room for answers. The bare surroundings offered none. He gave up and closed his eyes again, hoping for the sweet oblivion which had come only to tease him.

He must have dozed off because he didn’t remember anyone re-entering the room, yet, someone was definitely there, standing over him. Bass blinked his eyes open again and squinted from the sunlight. This light situation was going to be a problem, he had decided.

“I told you, you aren’t allowed to die.”

A weight had descended onto his bed and a hand had lifted up his head, something cool was being pressed against his lips. Water. He drank it greedily until the glass was completely empty. This task completed, Bass finally allowed his eyes to focus on the face in front of him.

“Is this really you?”

“What?”

“Are you real?”

Miles brought his hand to his own face, rubbing it in a way that almost seemed embarrassed to Bass. Then, he brushed his hair away and gave Bass a vaguely exhausted look.

“Yeah, Bass. I’m real.”

“If you’re really you then why am I still alive?” He tried his restraints again: as tight as ever. “Am I still me then?”

“For fuck’s sakes, Bass, how hard did you hit your head in that explosion?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Miles, for Bass had decided he might as well believe it was really Miles, asked.

He wasn’t going to tell him _that_. What would be the point of seeing Miles laugh in his face once he heard that his dying hallucination had been of Miles kissing him? 

“Uh... I remember there was an explosion.”

“And then?”

“And then... the building fell on me. What the fuck do you want me to say?” he sounded angrier than how he had intended it to come out.

“What the fuck were you even doing in that building?”

“Excuse me, assface? I was in that building because obviously you were planning on blowing me up _in that building_ since that’s where I lived. Got any other genius questions?” This was unbearable. He could handle torture. He could certainly have handled death, in fact, he had prayed for it. But not this, whatever _this_ bullshit was.

“You went back inside. Why did you go back inside? I saw you. But it was too late. We had already set the charges.”

Bass had decided he wasn’t going to talk anymore.

“Did you go back for this?” Miles had taken something out of his pocket. It was covered in blood, probably Monroe’s own blood, but he could still recognize it. The damn photo.

“Never seen it before in my life,” Bass said, the obvious lie causing him to smile with one corner of his mouth.

Miles shook his head and put the photo back in his own pocket.

“You’ve always been a sentimental fool,” he finally said and rose up off the bed. _And this was why I pretty much wish I had died_ , Bass thought and closed his eyes again. He figured his tormentor would leave, but Miles was apparently not done hovering over his bed. He felt the other man checking his restraints, pulling them tighter, as if there was even a slight chance of him escaping. “These are leather, so if you don’t struggle too much, you won’t get any new injuries.”

“Go fuck yourself, Miles.”

“You have three broken ribs and a broken leg. You’ll probably heal just fine if you stay here, like a good boy.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Bass finally asked, realizing the other man wasn’t leaving.

“Why do you think? For information.”

“Ah.” Of course, Bass heaved a mental sigh. “So, what? You’re planning on torturing me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re going to make me torture you.”

Bass felt his eyes fly open again and he stared across the bed, his eyes meeting Miles’ eyes, unflinching, unblinking.

“Free will, Miles. I never made you do anything you didn’t want to do yourself.”

It was then that Miles turned slowly, his hands placed behind his back, gave Bass the smallest nod and walked out of the room.

***

Yes, surely, in retrospect, fucking Rachel had been a mistake. A horrible, entirely too pleasurable, stupid mistake.

Bass had looked up from the floor, where a power punch to the face from Miles had landed him.

“Dammit, Miles, I did not rape her!”

Surely, after everything they’ve been through together, Miles would know better than to believe something like that. The old Miles wouldn’t have hit him in the _face_ either.

“So what then, you’re saying she gave herself that black eye?”

“I don’t fucking know, man! She was fine when I left her.”

“So you admit you fucked her.”

Bass didn’t know what to do with his hands, as he ran them helplessly through his hair.

“Look... I’m not gonna lie to you...”

“She is _Ben’s_ wife, for fuck’s sakes!”

“I didn’t rape her!”

He was never quite sure if Miles had believed him. But they never spoke of the incident again and Bass swore he would never touch the bitch again as long as he lived.

***

“You’re going about this all wrong, Miles.” Rachel was pacing up a storm in the small confines of her room, her hands nervously playing with the small blade she usually kept in the thigh holster she wore.

Miles shifted nervously, eyes uneasily following the blade as it twirled and caught the stray bits of light sneaking into the space.

“He’s not really in a position to withhold any physical strain right now. He’ll crack.” Miles had certainly hoped Bass would crack. He wasn’t sure how much more of this whole situation he could personally withstand.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Rachel had stopped pacing. “Is that what you’re doing? Trying to convince me you don’t have feelings for him anymore?”

“He had Ben killed, he tortured Danny...”

“I don’t need you to recite to me the litany of Monroe’s misdeeds, Miles, they’re not anything you wouldn’t have been complicit in yourself.”

“Rachel...”

“No. Stop.” She had walked up to him, the blade finally reholstered, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I know you loved your brother. But I also know you loved Bass. That you _love_ Bass still.”

“He’ll tell me where their stockpile of ammunition is.” Miles had tried to assure her of this fact as he tried to convince himself that what he said was true. 

“And he still loves you,” she continued. “Use that. That’s the only way you’re going to get him to tell you anything. Not threats, not pain.”

“What are you suggesting I do? Fuck the information out of him?”

She laughed, a small, almost coy laugh.

“Oh no. If I suggested you did that, I would be an idiot. If you do that, we might as well kiss our entire cause goodbye.”

“Seems like such a weak cause, to be so easily shaken by a little Bass-sex.” Miles gave her a hard smile in return.

“I’m merely suggesting that you get creative in your interrogation techniques.” She had walked over to the small stand and poured two glasses of whiskey, handing one to Miles. “If pain doesn’t work, try another angle.” She tipped her glass against his in a companionable gesture and downed the contents. “But don’t fuck him. Jesus Christ, Miles.”

***

Miles remembered having his binoculars trained on Bass as he and Jeremy walked out of the compound, remembered giving the signal to light the charges, and remembered feeling like a traitor when he had to look over his shoulder and meet his niece’s eager young gaze. But it didn’t matter now, he wasn’t going to let Bass die like that, blown into bits. It was hard enough thinking of him as actually dead, but the thought of picking his body parts off the ground in an effort to bury him... well... that was about when Miles had to focus on something else in an effort not to throw up. He picked up the binoculars again, expecting to see Bass driving away in one of the pendant-powered jeeps, only to see him engaged in what seemed like an argument with Jeremy.

“No,” Miles mumbled to himself. “No. Motherfucker. What are you doing?” He turned to give the signal to abort, but it was too late. The fuse may have been long but it wasn’t long enough. The building exploded and Miles dropped his binoculars.

“What are you doing, Miles?” Charlie’s hands clutched at his arm, in that way that had become simultaneously foreign and familiar. “Please, Miles, don’t. Don’t go in there. Please!”

He couldn’t explain to her what he was doing because he wasn’t sure what he had been doing himself. In his mind, he was already picking up the various body parts of Bass off the ground, so imagine his surprise when he found him not only (mostly) in one piece, but still breathing. That’s when he forgot why he had come there in the first place, but only for a moment. However much he tried to convince himself later, as he strapped Bass to the bed in their mobile clinic, that this was a strategic decision - to take General Monroe alive, he knew the answer to his actions lay elsewhere. Possibly in the tears that streaked down his face as he kissed Bass and his dry, chapped lips, over and over again, long after he had passed out in his arms.

***

As soon as Miles saw the look on Bass’ face as he walked into the clinic, he felt most of his resolve melt away. After everything that has passed, all the blood and tears between them, how could he still allow his heart to contract like that at the mere sight of those bright blue eyes. No one had ever looked at him the way Bass looked at him. With such hope, such promise, even on the brink of death. Miles turned away so that Bass wouldn’t see him swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I’m happy to see, Miles, that you’ve decided to do me the honor of torturing me personally.”

“I told you,” Miles replied, his voice made even more gruff by his need to shake his earlier thoughts, “Whether or not I torture you is your own choice. You could make things easy for yourself.” _For both of us_ , he thought, hopefully. “We know you had a hidden stockpile of weapons. Tanks, missile launchers, and such. Just tell me where that stuff is kept and no further harm will come to you.”

“That’s sweet, Miles. It’s good to know you care about the important things. Tanks. And such.” Bass dissolved into an infuriating smile. Even broken and exhausted and tied to the bed, he made Miles’ blood boil.

“We’ve already discussed that only one of us is the overly sentimental fool.”

“Insults will get you everywhere in interrogations.” Bass smirked again.

Miles walked up to the bed and yanked the cover off the other man’s body, exposing the condition he had been in underneath the shabby blanket. The bruises, the visible ones at least, were beginning to fade, though there was still a lot of bandaging around his mid-torso, where his broken ribs were probably just beginning to heal. His right leg was in a makeshift splint, which was the closest thing they could make to a cast under the circumstances. Miles forced himself to think of the body in front of him as a canvas for him to work over, not Bass, not overly familiar flesh that he used to crave more than water. Not something he has kissed and licked and caressed more times than he would care to admit.

“Just tell me where the weapons are, Bass.”

“I hope you like yourself, Miles,” the incapacitated man uttered with another hint of a smile, “Because that’s who I’m going to recommend you to go fuck.”

Miles took out one of his knives and cut the bandages off Bass’ ribcage, exposing the deeper bruising underneath. Bass tried to struggle against the restraints, his nerves finally showing, and this gave Miles a slight satisfaction as he paused and looked down at the other man. Even after all these years, Bass had a physique that was almost obnoxiously perfect. He had to remind himself not to lick his lips and focus on the bruising, which is where Miles finally applied pressure with his hand.

“Tell me where the weapons are.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Miles pressed down, tearing a cry of agony out of Bass’ throat.

“God, you’re a fucking asshole,” Bass groaned, his head rolling back and forth as he tried to catch his breath.

“I need to know where the weapons are, Bass.”

“I told you...”

Miles had repeated his previous movement, but caught less off guard this time, Bass was able to control his response in a more measured way.

“You can tell me to go fuck myself in as many different ways or languages that you prefer, but eventually you will tell me where you stockpiled those weapons.”

“Or I won’t, and you’ll have to kill me.”

Miles saw something feral flash in his eyes, an underlying intent. Bass meant what he said, and Miles knew that he was going to call his bluff. Miles wasn’t ready to kill him, and the infuriatingly gorgeous imbecile knew it.

“No one is coming to rescue you,” Miles continued after giving them both a moment’s respite. He drew his fingertips slowly down Bass’ thigh, causing a visible shiver to run up the prone man’s body. Perhaps Rachel had been right, and he had been going about this thing the wrong way. He was going to take the splint off Bass’ leg, but this new thought stopped him in his tracks. “We don’t have to fight the Monroe Republic anymore,” Miles went on, letting his fingers graze the underside of Bass’ knee. “There is no more Monroe Republic. You can join us and we’ll find Randall together. But you have to give me the weapons first.”

“That’s a ridiculous lie, Miles, even for you. You know there’s no joining us. There is no _us_. Rachel, Nora, your little Matheson twirps, they’d all as soon see my head on a pike than let me join anything.”

“You killed Ben...”

“I didn’t kill Ben!”

“Whatever, you had him killed.”

“Goddammit, Miles! Don’t you think if I could go back in time, I might actually take that bullet myself, just to save me from the misery of having you throw this in my face over and over again?” Bass knew he had overextended himself with that little outburst and his lungs tried to expand fruitlessly against the cracked ribs. His breath was quick and shallow. 

“You raped Rachel...”

“Miles,” Bass wanted to chew through his restraints. “You can accuse me of whatever you want. Certainly, I’ve got plenty of blood on my hands. But I didn’t send Neville to kill your brother, and I sure as fuck didn’t force myself on Rachel. I don’t care what that bitch told you, how many bruises she showed you... it’s...” It was becoming impossible to talk. “It’s just not true.”

Miles was sliding his hand up Bass’ inner thigh.

“What... what are you... doing?” Bass stammered and Miles smirked at the man in front of him. This was, indeed, going to be a lot more fun than trying to cause him physical pain. For both of them.

“I’m taking advantage of an invalid, it would appear.” His voice was calm, but he bit his lower lip as his hand rode higher and higher up Bass’ thigh, a fact which had not gone unnoticed by Bass. His fingers brushed gently against the thin material of Bass’ briefs.

“Stop!”

“Really? You want me to stop?” Miles cocked an eyebrow towards Bass, looking entirely unconvinced. Instead of stopping, he dipped his hand between Bass’ thighs again and began to roll his balls between his fingers.

***

When Miles first walked out of the collapsed building, holding what she had assumed to be Sebastian Monroe’s dead body, Rachel had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She wasn’t sure whether it was the thought of seeing that part of her past die, the thought of revenge not personally fulfilled, or quite possibly the fear of what she would become without Miles. For surely, Miles would not be able to survive this. Would he? When she at last realized that the man in Miles’ arms had been merely unconscious, not that she would admit it out loud, but a part of her had been relieved.

“Why didn’t you just finish him off?” she asked, her face a mask of composure.

“Because I love him,” he had said, and she was thankful that she had been the only one to hear him. If it had been anyone else, a Georgian especially, now that they’ve joined with the Georgians, there is no telling what they would have done. Probably shot Miles on sight.

She was charitable enough to pretend to not hear him, or at least not to remember what he had said, although in those moments in the subsequent days when they would speak together alone, after Charlie and Danny would be asleep, or taking their turns at the watch, she could feel the shame of what he had said rolling off him in waves. 

She had done this to them. She remembered. They were perfect before. Perfectly monstrous, but perfect nevertheless. But as they say, all's fair in love and war. And in the case Monroe vs. Matheson, it had always been a little of both.

***

“Dammit, Miles, don’t start something you’re not willing to finish,” Bass gasped, as Miles slowly massaged his scrotum.

“I’m perfectly willing to finish this, Bass.” Suddenly, the beautiful asshole removed his hand, causing Bass to shiver again and buck up into the cold air. He suddenly felt much more naked than before, even though he had been just as dressed, or equally as undressed, as when Miles had decides to use his broken ribs as a ball of kneading dough.

Miles had leaned over him, lips hovering mere inches above his face, and Bass found himself staring into the cleft in his former lover’s chin, suddenly remembering what it was like to lick that part of his face. His eyes involuntarily traveled down Miles’ neck and he emitted a soft moan. Miles’ hand had begun to caress his abdomen, slowly trailing fingers up towards his chest, barely brushing his nipples.

“You tell me where the weapons are, and I’ll finish it.”

“Oh,” Bass chuckled. “This is... I get it now. And I hate you more than ever.”

“You don’t hate me, Bass.” Miles gingerly placed his thumb and index finger around one of the pink nubs on Bass’ chest and pressed, causing the prisoner to intake another sharp breath. “You want me.” Miles moved his face closer, his breath hot against Monroe’s neck ligaments. “You want this.”

“Damn you,” Bass squeezed between his teeth, shutting his eyes, and willing himself to feel nothing.

“You can have this. You just have to earn it.” Miles pressed a soft kiss behind Bass’ ear, sending another shiver down his spine. Bass realized that this was a losing battle. Miles always knew how to play his body like the violin. Hot lips were trailing infuriatingly soft kisses down the side of his neck.

“You can’t do this. This is cheating,” Bass tried to protest, but in vain, since one of Miles’ hands hand found his cock again and was palming it through the thin material of his briefs. “Stop.” He was getting hard. His body was always his biggest traitor. “Please.”

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?” Miles had continued his painfully languid assault on his neck ligaments, lips finally moving down his chest, tongue toying with his other nipple. “You want me to go on. You know how good I can make you feel.”

“Please, not like this.”

“Come on, Bass. You’ve never objected to being tied up and devoured before.”

Bass could feel every muscle in his body, even the injured ones, singing an ecstatic ode in praise of everything Miles was doing, and just as sharply, the lips and the hand were gone.

“Are you going to play ball, Bass?”

“Go fuck yourself, and the whore who sent you here to torment me!”

Bass saw it clearly now: this final insult, the ultimate humiliation. Of being used like this, only to be left high and dry, begging for more, like some wanton harlot, hog tied and spread out for Miles. Except Miles didn’t really want him. He only wanted his information.

“I might not be so nice the next time I ask you,” Miles said and wiped his hand against his own slacks, as if to get rid of any stray particles of Bass on his skin.

“I wish you had just left me to die,” Bass muttered, barely loudly enough for Miles to hear, and yet, the look Miles had given him was testament enough that he had been heard and understood.

***

“That makes two of us,” Miles said to no one in particular as he slammed his fist into the wall of his own room. He knew he didn’t really mean it, and that was why he wanted to make himself bleed. In all the years that he spent trying to drink himself to death, he was sure he had never hated himself quite as much as in that moment.

“Miles?”

“Not now, Charlie.”

“My mom wants to know who you have guarding Monroe’s room tonight.”

“What’s the big concern? Not like he’s going to just walk out of there, is he?” He turned towards her, cradling his hand on which his knuckles were beginning to bruise.

“Miles, what’s wrong?” How could he answer her? How could he explain that this was an “adult conversation” and not really one he ever wanted to have with his niece.

“Nothing that a nice bottle of scotch can’t fix, Charlie,” he finally replied, dismissing her with a nod. In another time, she probably would have stayed and prodded. But, thankfully, that time had passed. She left him alone, with only his bottle and his bruised hand to keep him company.

***

Linda was back. Bass thought that had been the girl’s name. Just perfect: to be found in a state of utter dishabille, and with remnants of what was a few moments ago a raging boner, and by a pretty Asian female. She looked him over and blushed, and Bass wondered if she had actually been younger than she looked. It was difficult to tell these days. This girl, who was probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, had the kind of look about her that he would have pegged her for the type to go to Columbia and maybe become one of those attorney-types, pinstriped skirt suits and high heels and everything. But that was before the blackout, and before he had apparently turned into a totalitarian dictator. A Ben-killer. A Rachel-rapist. Fuck them all, fuck the Mathesons, fuck them with a broomstick, dammit!

“Are you supposed to be naked like this?” the girl asked, giving him an impertinent look.

“I was trying to get a tan,” he replied, giving her what he hoped would be his most charming smile. He didn’t get where he was today by murdering people all the time, after all. He felt a small tinge of victory as she offered him a crooked smile: a small peace offering. Then she drew the blanket over him again.

“I’m supposed to make sure you eat.”

“Eat?” He gave her a piercing look and could have sworn she blushed again.

“Eat. Consume food stuffs. Don’t be a smart ass.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“I’m a guard,” she said, casting a defiant look in his direction.

“I preferred you when you were a nurse.”

“Yeah, well, if wishes were fishes we’d all swim away.” She injected something into his IV and then added, casually, “Asshole.”

“Have we met?” he tried to ask as the effects of whatever she had injected him with seemed to take effect. He felt a little loopy, but the pain was much better. A small mercy from the Mathesons, perhaps? Or was this compliments of his guard nurse?

“Not since the day your men forced my brother into your damn militia.” She turned sharply towards him, the syringe brandished in her hand, giving Bass pause. “Though you’re prettier than I remember.” She lowered her hand and moved towards the tray with what appeared to be food on it.

“Don’t go. I think I like you.” He gave her a drug-induced grin.

“Oh, brother,” she mumbled. “You should know I’m gay. Miles thought it would be safer to have a lesbian guard you.” Then she brought something up to his lips. “Eat.”

“Miles thinks of everything,” he said, almost giddy with inappropriate happiness, and took a bite of the bread. “What drug did you just dose me with?”

“Enough with the small talk, Monroe. Just eat this and go to sleep.”

He wanted to sing for joy. Miles had assigned a lesbian to guard him. He laughed so hard, tears had begun to stream down his face. She called him a lunatic and then she was gone, and the room had finally descended into darkness and silence.

***

Rachel had to believe that if there was anything Miles loved more in the world than Monroe, it had to be Ben. She couldn’t be sure, of course, but she knew how close Ben and Miles had been growing up, the signs of hero worship Miles had exhibited on the occasions when they were together. It was the only thing she had in this new world she found herself in, a prisoner in her own brother-in-law’s army, the only straw at which she could clutch with stubborn fingers.

She had to tear them apart. They were nothing without one another. This symbiotic relationship only worked so long as they were together. Bass and Miles. Miles and Bass. Two waves amplifying each other. Without Miles, Bass was nothing. Without Bass, Miles would probably die.

And the way she had caught Bass looking at her, this would be far too easy. 

She loved Ben, loved Charlie and Danny, she just had to remind herself of this, that she was doing it for them. To be with them again. Destroy Miles and Bass. Rejoin her family. It was simple really. And Bass was a hot piece of ass, let’s face it, she could do a lot worse than to run her hands up and down his abs (those damn washboard abs, sometimes she couldn’t believe that a human being should be allowed to have such muscle definition, certainly she didn’t think Miles did), wrapping her thighs around his slender hips, her nails digging into the tight flesh of his gorgeous ass while he thrust into her. Little fool.

He was done, and lying on top of her, in a post-coital swoon while she ran her fingers through his curls, a hard smile playing upon her lips. Far too easy.

Once he was gone, she had walked over to the small bar in her lodgings and forced herself to consume enough whiskey to numb her. After all, eventually she would have to go slam her face into the sink for Miles’ benefit.

***

He woke up because something didn’t feel quite right, which was all relative at that point anyways when you’re strapped to a bed with broken bones and who-knows-what coursing through your veins. He felt someone slip a pillow under his hips, elevating him in a very peculiar way, considering his ankles were still in restraints. This couldn’t be good. Could it?

Cautiously he opened one eye, then the other, and suddenly became very painfully aware of his own erection. More importantly, he became aware of the fact that someone had apparently tied a rope around his erection and the base of his balls. He’s played this game before.

“Miles?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing to me?”

“This is very routine. Just need to ask you a few questions.”

Bass felt the other man moving around his bed in the darkness, leaning over him, he could smell the alcohol on Miles’ breath, and if past experience had been any indication, this was probably not a good sign.

“Just one question, really. Where is your weapons stockpile?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bass sighed. “Is this actually code for something else?” Bass still felt kind of giddy from the drugs. Winning this round with Miles might turn out to be a lot more difficult than before. He felt Miles’ hand stroking along the length of his erection. Just like Miles, he thought to his own amusement, to put every single one of his body parts in bondage, only to ask him about some stupid weapons stockpile. But still. At least he was touching him.

“Suit yourself,” Miles moved further away towards the foot of the bed. Bass felt his hands on his thighs again, and then, he felt himself being breached. He couldn’t be sure with what, but that it wasn’t Miles’ cock he was certain.

Bass moaned helplessly. Whatever the object was, Miles was stroking his insides with it slowly, almost teasingly, so he could feel each inch slide in then out again, a steady assault on his overly sensitized nerves.

“Stop... God... Why do you do this to me?”

“Come on, Bass. This can have a happy ending. Pun intended.”

“Please...”

“Please, what?”

“Please... more.”

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

This wasn’t right. This would have been abso-fucking-lutely right had this been eons ago, when Bass knew for a fact that after teasing and torturing him and denying him orgasm for hours, Miles would finally fuck him into whatever surface they were using, and let him cum for what felt like ages. But this wasn’t a love game. This was a war game. This was the opposite of right.

Bass felt the object pop out of himself with a small plop and then Miles ran it up his thigh, up his stomach, and finally lightly smacked him with it in the face. Bass realized it had been a leather billy club. His cock twitched involuntarily again, reminding him of his predicament.

“You want me to let you come, Bass?”

Bass could feel beads of his own sweat starting to form, seemingly all over his body.

“Y-y-yes,” he managed, as the billy club disappeared out of view again. 

“You know what you need to tell me then,” he heard from the other side of the bed while Miles was doing something to his weapon of choice. Lubing it up more, Bass realized, and a small flash of triumph sparkled in his mind. It slid smoothly back inside him, causing him to moan again. “What do you say?”

“Please, sir.... I need more.”

“I know you do.” Miles was speeding the movement of his hand up. Bass could now feel his entire body becoming drenched in sweat as all of his faculties were becoming focused on the point of contact of the billy club and his prostate and his angrily engorged cock. “You just have to say the magic word, Bass, and I’ll loosen this rope.”

“God!” Bass wasn’t sure he was going to take this much longer. In the past, sure he could have lasted a while, safe in the knowledge of what was to come. But he hadn’t even been touched by Miles in years at this point. How was he supposed to...

“Come on, baby. Just one word. That’s all you have to say, and I’ll give you what you want. Whatever you want.”

“I want _you_ ,” Bass moaned and bit his own lips, shivers of denied pleasure building underneath his inflamed skin. “I want you inside me.”

“You can have me inside you, but first...”

“Liar!” Bass was beginning to thrash abortively in his bonds. He wanted to come, he needed to come so badly. And what the hell did they actually put into his IV? He’s never felt so turned on in his entire life and at the same time so humiliated. He felt another deep, long thrust, as Miles leaned over him, lips brushing just barely against his own lips. “You don’t want me anymore,” Bass found himself whispering.

“Anything you want, Bass,” Miles whispered back, and the smell of the alcohol gave Bass a tinge of hope. “Just one word.”

Bass moaned again, he felt like he could cry for want of this, it felt so good and so horrible at the same time.

“Please,” he moaned again. He wasn’t really sure what he was pleading for because it was more than to just have Miles allow him to come. Please, treat me as your friend again. Please, love me like you used to. Please touch me again, oh God, _please_. “Please want me again, Miles. I’ll tell you whatever you need.”

Suddenly, the billy club was gone and he felt empty. Miles was no longer leaning over him. _This is what comes of telling the truth_ , Bass thought angrily. Miles yanked the pillow out from under his hips and threw the covers over him again. He left the rope in place.

“To be continued,” Miles said, with his back to Bass as he began to leave the room.

“Fuck yourself forever,” Bass called out after him.

***

There was no denying the obvious fact that Miles could, in fact, _smell_ Bass on Rachel, all over Rachel. It was irrelevant that they couldn’t run a DNA test on the semen inside her, no one else smelled like Bass. Miles trusted his own nose more than a PCR machine.

“Why did he do this to me, why?” she was sobbing into his shoulder as he held the coldest thing he could find to her swollen face.

“I’m so sorry, Rachel. I never meant for any of this to happen, you know that.” It was true, Miles realized. He never in his wildest nightmares would have expected Bass to do something like this. Sure, he was never the biggest fan of Rachel in the grand scheme of things, but this? This was going too far. Much too far. “I’ll make sure he never lays a finger on you again.”

“Don’t hit him, Miles, you’ll just make him angrier.”

He wasn’t going to hit him. Oddly enough, it dawned on him that until she had said those words, he had absolutely no intention of hitting Bass. But now he would have to do it. It was perfectly logical, it was the only thing that made sense. He took one more look at Rachel’s face to steel his nerves.

***

Someone was shaking him awake, but Bass was pretty sure it wasn’t morning yet. In fact, judging by the depth of sleep from which he was being so rudely awakened, he could not have been out longer than a couple of hours. Perhaps it was the drugs Linda had given him. Perhaps the whole incident with Miles and the billy club had been a dream.

“What in the fucking.... hell... and things?” He rubbed his eyes with his hands and tried to roll over.

Suddenly he was wide away. He had rubbed his eyes with his hands. His hands: he had stared at both his palms. He was no longer in restraints. His hand quickly flew to his own cock: the rope was gone too, thank Christ.

“Shhh, be quiet. Here, take this gun. Lean on me. C’mon, Bass, shake a leg.”

He couldn’t make anything out in the darkness, but the whispering voice had a familiar quality.

“I can’t. My leg is broken,” he mumbled, still not quite free of the effects of the narcotic.

“Oh, you’re just adorable, aren’t you?”

His face rolled into someone’s neck, a strong arm circled around his waist as he was lifted out of the cot. This smelled familiar.

“Jeremy?”

“Who the hell else do you think would give enough of a shit to break into a Georgian-cum-rebel camp in the middle of the night to rescue your ungrateful ass?”

“Um...” Bass was trying to think. There was a time when he wouldn’t even think about it because the answer would be “Miles” - back in those days the answer was always “Miles.” But now, it would depend on the question. 

“It was a rhetorical question.” Jeremy looked around the room to see if something could pass for clothes. “I’ll be right back. I’ll go borrow the pants from the guard I just killed.”

Bass vaguely wondered if Jeremy had meant Linda, but then decided he couldn’t realistically expect Bass to fit into a svelte Asian girl’s pants, no matter how long he had been on a fasting diet. He hoped Linda was still okay. After all, she was the only person here who had never lied to him.

Jeremy had returned and tossed something that indeed resembled pants in the darkness towards Bass. They were too big and Jeremy had to help him get his broken leg into them. The entire situation was really sub-optimal, Bass mused.

“So, can you walk or do I have to actually carry you?” Jeremy was kneeling in front of him, his familiar, loyal face becoming more defined as Bass’ eyes began to get accustomed to the darkness.

“Did you come alone?” he finally asked, his hand caressing the side of Jeremy’s face.

“There’s no one else, Bass.” Jeremy leaned into the touch a bit. “Besides, you know I work better alone. Less conspicuous.”

“These Georgian uniforms are atrocious,” Bass laughed, his fingers playing with the folds of Jeremy’s assumed outfit.

“Really, this isn’t the ideal time for this, Bass. C’mon. Let’s go.” Jeremy offered his body again, and Bass braced himself against his broad shoulders, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

“You shouldn’t have come, Jeremy.”

“We can have this discussion once I get you the hell out of here, yes?”

“I can’t go with you.”

“Are you absolutely out of your fucking mind?!” It was difficult to yell at someone while whispering, but damn if Jeremy wasn’t going to attempt it anyways. He shook Bass by the shoulders. “He’s going to _kill_ you, Bass!”

“If he was going to kill me, he would have done so already. Lord knows he’s had plenty of opportunities.”

“Look, man, you might be suicidal and masochistic, but I’m not! I’m not leaving you here. I didn’t come back here, risking life and limb just to say ‘Hello.’”

“I love him, Jeremy. If this is the only way I can be with him...”

“I love _you_!” Jeremy exploded suddenly. “For Christ’s sakes, it has always been you! I have had to pick up pieces of your broken psyche off the floor in that asshole’s wake! I’ve stayed with you, I took care of you. _He_ blew you up! What is it going to take for you to see how crazy this is?”

“No one ever said love was a rational emotion.” Bass knew that he should probably stop talking. After all, Jeremy had just said more to him than he probably ever intended to say aloud, certainly much more than Bass was willing to hear and comprehend at the moment. “You can’t choose who you love. Surely, you understand that.”

“No, I guess you can just choose who you’re going to die for, huh?”

“You should go, Jeremy. I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to you.”

“Couldn’t bear it, huh?” a woman’s voice suddenly sounded in the darkness and the flicker of a kerosene lamp lit up the clinic.

“Mrs. Matheson,” Jeremy uttered, with his usual wry smile. “Miles. So nice of you to join us.” Rachel and Miles were indeed blocking the entrance, rifles shouldered and at the ready. About four other rebels Jeremy could not identify brought up their rear.

“Well, Bass,” Jeremy looked over at the man who used to be his President, “I guess I really did just drop by to say ‘Hello’ after all. I hope it was worth it for you.”

And then two gunshots sounded from the opposite sides of the room.

***

“I can’t do this anymore, Rachel, I can’t...” 

He was sobbing into his own hands, hating himself for this lack of control, for allowing himself to take comfort from her. Rachel sat next to Miles, her arms wrapped around him as a flood of scotch-propelled tears escaped from seemingly the depth of his soul, her chin resting quietly on his shoulder as she held him.

“I just... I want to make him better. Please, I can’t hurt him anymore. I can’t hurt myself anymore.”

“Shh, it’s okay, Miles. It’s okay,” she whispered and pressed her arms tighter around him.

“It’s not okay. It’s anything but okay. How can you say that? After everything he’s done to our family, to _you_...” He choked back a new flood of sobs that were threatening to break loose. This was profoundly unmanly, he thought, but in related news, who gave a shit. “How can I still feel this way for him? How?”

“Look,” she started to speak, her eyes downcast as if she couldn’t really face him or even herself anymore. “Maybe you don’t have to fight it. Maybe this is just the way it’s meant to be. Let’s just worry about Randall, and this whole thing with Monroe will just... sort itself out.”

“I just want to be with him,” he whispered, forcing himself to look at her. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“It’s not your fault, Miles.”

“Of course it’s my fault.”

“You did the best you could.” Suddenly she pricked up her ears. “What’s happening out there?”

Miles quickly wiped the remnants of tears off his face, just in time to see that Georgian girl, the medic, burst into his room.

“Sorry to barge in, Sir, but you should know that there’s been a breach.”

Miles got up off his bed and mechanically grabbed his rifle.

“I’m coming with you,” Rachel said, and looked into his eyes. “It’ll be alright, Miles. We’ll fix this.”

***

“I can’t fix this,” Linda was shaking her head. “There’s too much internal damage. I’m sorry.”

Miles gave the girl a curt nod and cast his eyes towards the bed.

“How long?” he asked.

“You should say your good-byes,” her hand brushed casually against his shoulder. “Should I get her kids?”

He wanted to speak but his throat felt parched so he just nodded again and moved over sit by Rachel’s side. He’s seen this look before, on far too many faces, he knew that she already had one foot in the grave.

“Rachel,” his voice came out hoarse and somehow distorted. “I’m so sorry.”

“Miles,” she looked at him, and maybe for the first time, he thought she looked happy to see him. “You’ll take care of my children, won’t you?”

“Of course. They’re my family.”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

“I’m sorry, Miles,” her voice was quiet but she enunciated her words so clearly, as if she wanted to carve each word into his memory.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who failed you. I failed everyone.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

“No. You must forgive me. I lied to you.” She was becoming weaker. There might not be time enough to say what she needed to say, and this was no time for trying to finesse this conversation. She held his gaze for a few moments to make sure he was paying attention. “I lied to you about Bass. He never raped me. He never hit me.”

“What are you talking about, Rachel?”

“I came on to him. I...” A small coughing fit rocked her body. “I did it on purpose. I did that to my own face too. I wanted to break you up, Miles. I’m sorry. I just... I didn’t know what else to do.” 

He looked at her as impending death painted different shades of pallor onto her beautiful face.

“I should have made you General of the Republic,” he whispered.

“Do you forgive me?” She coughed again, this time coughing up blood. Miles wiped the corner of her mouth and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I promise I’ll take good care of Charlie and Danny,” he whispered in her ear. 

***

Bass wasn’t sure who had fired first. He wasn’t really sure of much of the sequence of events, since the situation spiraled out of control so rapidly. But here he was, in “the pit” as Miles called it - “Take him to the pit!”

The pit was actually a repurposed tornado shelter, a fact which, Bass figured, should make him feel strangely safe. After all, these things were built for the security of those below, not the forces above. Although he doubted that Miles had him thrown in here for his own protection.

He was still wearing the loosely misfitted pants of some dead guard, and not much else, as he burrowed further into the corner of the dark space and ran his fingers through his hair. Shit. His hands were still covered in Jeremy’s blood, which meant now so was his hair.

Jeremy. No.

“No! You fucking cunt! You goddamn fucking cunt!” 

“Take him to the pit!”

“Miles, no! Please help him!”

He was fairly sure there was no saving Rachel. Jeremy Baker was always an excellent shot. And now he was probably lying dead in a puddle of his own blood, killed by fucking Rachel Matheson, as if she needed to add another notch to her homicidal belt. And all because of his misplaced affection towards one Sebastian Monroe: malediction extraordinaire.

“Get him the hell out of here!” Miles had barked. And so, here he was, still in the pit, still mostly naked, and alone. He was losing track of time. The blood on his hands had been drying. 

_What is it going to take for you to see how crazy this is?_

No. It couldn’t end like this.

A ray of light penetrated into the darkness of the pit. It must have been morning and someone must have opened the hatch door. Bass recognized his steps - Miles always had a peculiar way of descending the staircase. Bass rose, preparing himself for whatever was to come.

Miles, who looked exactly like a man who had not slept a wink in over thirty-six hours, walked within a foot of him and stopped, his chest heaving, his gaze inscrutable but full of undercurrents of anguish. 

“Rachel’s dead,” he finally said.

“And Jeremy?”

“Bass, listen to me.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to deny him medical treatment. He’s your friend too, Miles!”

“Bass, I need to talk to you...”

“Rosemont! Okay? Happy now?! The weapons are in Rosemont! Only help him, please!” 

Suddenly Miles had his arms wrapped around him, he was pressing his face into the crook of Bass’ neck, pulling him closer and closer. Bass felt a sob break free from his chest. His lungs were on fire. And then Miles was kissing him, kissing his whole face, practically devouring him, lips, eyes, nose, chin, lips and teeth tugging gently on his skin as Miles’ fingers gripped his hair tightly. Bass froze for lack of comprehension.

“Oh God, Miles. Is he dead? Just tell me if he’s dead.”

Miles finally separated himself from Bass long enough to collect himself.

“What? Who?”

“For fuck’s sakes! Jeremy! What the hell have you done with him?”

“Oh.” Miles ran his hand through his hair, and then began to bring Bass’ face closer to his with both his hands, stroking the sides of his cheeks, his thumb carefully exploring the stubble along his jaw. “Nothing Bass. It was a through-and-through. I’m having Linda check up on him. You know, make sure he keeps breathing.”

“He’s not dead?” After everything that’s happened, Bass couldn’t be sure this wasn’t just another sick mind game Miles was playing with him. “You are giving him medical treatment?”

“He came to save you, Bass. When no one else would. I’m not stupid enough to ever waste a man like that.” Miles kissed him again but he was ready this time, ready to push him away.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bass shouted. “What is all this?”

“I needed to see you. To talk to you. Rachel confessed everything to me before she died.”

“She con... what? Oh.” Bass took a step back and gave Miles a hard look. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you before when you said you didn’t do it. I... I have no excuses. I just had no idea how far she would go to ruin us.”

“So, what? I’m not a rapist anymore? That makes everything better between us?” Bass was fighting two very conflicting urges: on the one hand, he wanted to beat the shit out of Miles, on the other hand, he wanted to kiss him until their lips bled. Both options seemed dangerously bloody.

“No, not everything. But let me try and make it better. No more games, no more lies. Just let me try and save you, save _us_.” Miles lifted his arm, uncertainly, and ran the back of his hand along the line of Bass’ bicep, making Bass’ skin tingle with anticipation. “I’ll start. You weren’t supposed to be in that house when it blew up. I gave the detonation order after I watched you leave.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it’s God’s truth. Why did you go back inside?”

Bass heaved a sigh, made more painful by the combination of Miles’ confession in addition to his broken ribs.

“For that photo.” Bass gave Miles an almost defeated smile of surrender. “Why did you save me from the rubble?”

“Because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the hope of ever being with you again.”

“Miles...” Bass didn’t really know what to say. There seemed to be one more question that he just couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Yes. I do.” Miles tugged at his hair again, and Bass allowed him to pull himself back into his embrace, melting comfortably this time into his arms, yielding his lips to the insistent pressure of Miles’ mouth on his. The only answers he truly needed were right here, in the familiar taste of his beloved.

***

It would take at least four more weeks for Bass’ ribs to heal completely, Miles realized this, but there was no way he was going to wait another moment before starting to make the last few days up to him. Now, making the last few years up to him - that Miles was not sure was an achievable goal. But the least he could do right now, was to make Bass cum right down his throat.

“No, don’t wear clothes,” he was playfully slapping Bass’ hands away as he reached for a shirt once Miles had brought him to his own room. “You should never wear clothes.”

“Shouldn’t you be in mourning or something?”

“Bass, come here,” Miles couldn’t get enough of his hands on his best friend’s skin, even with all the dirt and dust of the pit still clinging to him. He pressed him up against the wall, making the other man moan again. “Shit, am I hurting you?”

“I don’t care,” Bass confessed. “Just don’t fucking tease me anymore.”

Miles slid to his knees and from there it was easy enough to put the loose trousers off Bass’ slender hips.

“Do you even care about Rosemont right now?” Bass smirked at him from above, suddenly finding an absurd amount of humor in the situation.

“I give zero fucks,” Miles confessed and took his lover’s cock in his mouth. If there was one thing in the world that a few days ago Bass would have sworn he would never see, it would have to be Miles Matheson, on his knees in front of him, sucking his cock with those amazing lips of his, with his eyes shut in blissful ecstasy as if it was the most important thing in the world for him to be doing. As if reading Bass’ mind, Miles opened his eyes and looked up, meeting his bright blue gaze, clouded over with heady lust. 

“God, you’re so beautiful like that,” Bass mumbled, his hand finding Miles’ hair and pulling him closer so that he could buck into his throat. The moan Miles emitted around his cock sent waves of desire up to the very roots of his hair. Then he started to ejaculate down his throat and with a helpless thump of his head against the wall, he melted into one bright pinnacle of desire. 

***

All things considered, one couldn’t really ask for a better medical bay mate than Jeremy Baker. Bass felt almost guilty for being secretly happy Jeremy got shot. Almost. Because there was no way he could regret the fact that all he had to do was turn barely in his cot to find Jeremy staring back at him from his own bed. Still, he regretted the shooting.

“This is ridiculous,” Jeremy whined again. “How long do I have to stay here? I’d rather Miles just throw me in some dungeon, at least that way you know where you stand. Right?”

“Dungeon, huh? Kinky.”

“Oh what, like you think he doesn’t have one here?”

Bass had been trying to read, but he gave up and looked over at the other man, who had been lying on his side, head propped up gracefully with one arm, as if he was some kind of a dainty Botticelli painting and not a finely honed killing machine.

“Have I told you yet how happy I am that you’re not dead?” Bass asked.

“No, but you can show me the precise extent of your joy once you’ve healed completely,” Jeremy wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“You do realize that when that day comes, you and Miles are going to come to blows over who gets to defile me first?”

Jeremy gave Bass a little pout.

“Well, I suppose he _was_ the ranking officer...”

“Do you think...” Bass begun to speak but suddenly interrupted himself. “No.”

“Do I think what?”

“Do you think we can ever go back to the way things were? You know, before everything went to shit?”

“I think... I think hope is the last thing to die, Bass,” Jeremy said, his face taking on an expression of seriousness Bass was unaccustomed to observing. “I think the mind and the heart will always find a way to return to a happier state of being.”

“You mean - forget?”

“I mean - look forward. As long as we’re still alive, there’s always hope of it working out, right?”

“From your lips, to God’s ears, Jeremy Baker,” Bass smiled at him and leaned across the space between their two cots to place a warm kiss on the other man’s lips.

“I only believe in Satan,” Jeremy smirked, and Bass laughed wholeheartedly and looked out the window. The sunlight was no longer hurting his eyes, and he could see how clear the April sky looked in the distance. _Spring has come_ , he thought. _A time for rebirth_.

FIN


End file.
